


alas, my murdered remains are incapable of learning anything

by Khismer



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, M/M, Mute Reader, Other, Soulmate AU, gender neutral reader, not sure i'd classify it as 'major' violence but we'll err on the side of caution, not........... the most romantic take on soulmates, the guns for hire make appearances because I Love Them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:27:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16016948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khismer/pseuds/Khismer
Summary: Some say the marks are a way to reach out. After all, the markings appear on your skin where your soulmate has been hurt, enough to leave a scar behind. Who better to help them than the one whose soul was designed for theirs?This sentiment caused… some distress in your early years. It might have caused more if you’d known who it was that was leaving these marks on you.





	1. salvation in the flood

You’ve always wondered, of course. How could you not? Someone out there is leaving patterns on your skin, and you can’t help but imagine who they might be, _why_ you might be marked in the ways you are – and you are marked _everywhere._

Baby’s-blue-eyes tucked into the crease of your elbow and curling up to your fingertips; blue phlox and periwinkles sprinkled like freckles here and there, sometimes barely-visible, above your eyebrow, on the side of your nose, against your cheek; a burst of hydrangeas on your calf; a single morning glory spread out over your hip… and an ocean of pincushion flowers, growing wide and wild on the expanse of your back, leaving only the space of a fingertip or two between the blossoms.

Those are the ones you remember showing up first, and then they _kept_ showing up, sometimes in pairs and sometimes one-by-one. You used to twist and turn in front of the mirror, checking whether another cluster had appeared overnight. 

Some say the marks are a way to reach out – like their soul is calling out to yours for relief, seeking help from the person most capable of helping them. After all, the markings appear on your skin where your soulmate has been hurt, enough to leave a scar behind. Who better to help them than the one whose soul was designed for theirs?

The sentiment caused… some distress in your early years, and no small amount of guilt. If someone was calling out for _you_ , then shouldn't you be able to _help them_? Find them through these clues they were leaving you, rescue them from whatever was hurting them?

Now, of course, you can reflect on it with more clarity; with age comes wisdom. You can't prevent wounds that have already scarred, and you can't help anyone you can't _see._

And the curiosity becomes less stifling with time, too. Once, you might have worried that such a dramatic change of scenery might destroy your chances of ever finding your soulmate – or you might have picked it _because_ of the possibility of finding them. But now… now it just feels like a fresh, new start. A chance for _growth._

Or it would've been if you didn't fuck it up big time just a few weeks after arriving in Montana.

_Lucky, lucky, lucky,_ is what you hear after. Lucky because it could have been worse. Lucky because, by all accounts, it _should_ have been worse.

You’re lucky the bastard who shot you caught you in the throat and not the head.

You're lucky that shotgun was loaded up with rock salt instead of actual shot or else you'd be dead right now.

You’re lucky you were with Hudson for the same reason, lucky she kept her cool and stopped you from bleeding out.

Maybe the universe is looking out for you. You took a direct hit and all you lost was your voice.

_It could have been worse._ You hear it over and over. _It could have been worse. It_ should _have been worse, by all accounts._ But you can breathe almost easy, and you can swallow without choking on your own spit. After a few weeks, you may even manage to yawn without the pain of it bringing tears to your eyes. And, they say, there’s a chance that you may get your voice back, eventually. After things heal more, after seeing whether practice and vocal therapy does anything to lessen the scar tissue on your vocal folds.

They give you a notebook and a pen at first, so you can answer when they ask whether your pain is manageable at the moment or if you want something to eat, and when the drowsiness wears off more and you’re less likely to drop it in a haze of painkiller-fueled exhaustion, you’re given your phone back, and typing is at least a little faster than old-fashioned writing.

Hudson is the first to visit you. It’s not until she stands before you that you remember what you’ve heard about her last partner, and though she doesn’t say it, you think that watching you get shot might’ve dredged up old memories, if the pensive line of her shoulders is any indication.

But you’re alive and on the mend, and that seems to ease her worries. She drops by when she can, checking in with you, giving you a friendly face to break up the monotony of staring at the ceiling and waiting to be discharged.

She’s there when you test out voice-to-speech apps, frustrated with how easily ignored you are at times, without a way to call out to those around you – and she’s there to see you write off most of them as resounding failures.

“This is offputting,” you inform her, the words gratingly artificial as they through the speaker on your phone. “I am offput.”

There is sympathy on her face, but at the sound of your borrowed voice, it’s clear that she’s holding back a laugh.

“It’s not _so_ bad,” she says. “And it’s a voice. Gets people’s attention better.”

You give her a look, and type, “I used it to ask the morning nurse about a change in the dosage and it startled her so badly she dropped my cup of pills.”

It’s a voice, but it’s not _your_ voice. And… if you’re really never going to get that back, you don't want her to forget what it sounded like so soon. Not if _this_ is what replaces it.

Besides, half of the programs rely on a stable connection to run unless you want them to stutter and sound like hell in audio form, and while you have one here at the hospital, it won’t help you to grow reliant on them only to find that they’re useless when you pass through any of the dozen dead zones in a three-mile radius from the station. So you return to writing your side of conversations, and save the apps for emergencies.

Sheriff Whitehorse visits as well, though only twice, and briefly at that. He's a busy man at the best of times, and from what you're hearing, it sounds like the feds are about to get involved in _the local problem_ , so you aren't surprised to see so little of him.

He assures you that the unbearable itchiness that has replaced the pain is good, a sign that it’s healing, and after you confess that figuring out how to communicate is still an issue, he drops a book onto your bed the next time he visits – _American Sign Language For Dummies_.

_‘Are you trying to imply something?’_ you write, eyes narrowed at him.

He chuckles softly. “It’ll keep you from getting bored,” he says. “Try it out.”

And it helps. It still won't get someone’s attention as easy as calling out to them would be, but it’s better than not knowing it, so you practice when you’re alone, starting with clumsy fingerspelling and working your way up to simple words.

Pratt starts coming by, only a few days before you get out. The first time he drops in, he dumps an armful of junk food clearly pilfered from the vending machine down the hall onto your bed. After days of cafeteria food, just _looking_ at it makes you ravenous.

“Thought you'd be out of here by now,” he says, leaning back in the chair by the bed. “Hiding out from all the paperwork you left behind, huh, rookie?”

Your lip curls. ‘ _Why’s it matter?_ ’ you write, ‘ _Are they gonna make you do it if I extend my stay here?_ ’

Pratt snorts at that.

He brings more snacks each time he visits. “Good thing we got most of your hazing out of the way before this happened,” he comments. “Might’ve felt too _bad_ to do it if you’d came in like this.”

You don’t need to know how to fingerspell to know what finger to use in response to that.

But he’s decent company anyway, and it’s nice to have someone to flip through the book with, even if you’re both just struggling through the basics together.

“That’s ‘stop,’ and… this is ‘no,’ right?” he asks, pinching the air with his index finger and his thumb.

‘ _That’s ‘bird,’’_ you write on your notepad, not yet familiar enough with the words to rely on signing them. ‘ _Add your middle finger to make ‘no.’_ ’

All in all, you start to feel next to normal – until the day before you're discharged, when they show you how to change out your bandages and you catch your first good look at what's beneath them.

The stitches are healing mostly clean. The rest of it… isn’t.

Starting from the underside of your jaw and stretching down past your collarbone is a swath of pockmarked, puckered skin, still with that faint shine of newness.

It leaves you feeling vulnerable, more than you expected. You look at it and it’s like _that moment_ is shining like a beacon out at you, displayed there for anyone to see. There is relief in reapplying new bandages, in letting the scar hide beneath them again.

After your period of bedrest is over, you have a week to recover at home before you can be cleared to return to work, a week to get used to changing bandages on your own, to relearn how to fall asleep without the steady beeping of hospital monitors around you, to read up on ASL, to take it easy and adjust to what may be your new normal.

It sucks ass.

Every minute you’re home, you _itch_ to be back in uniform, to be _doing something._ You know, of course, that the most exciting thing ahead of you is traffic enforcement, and that’s only if you’re lucky, but even being stuck behind a desk doing paperwork would be more palatable than just counting down the days until the check-in that'll prove you're good to go back.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so eager to return to the Sheriff’s Department, or to don the uniform you got _shot_ in, but you can’t dispel the thought that you’re going to feel safer _in_ it than _out_ of it. You can’t change what happened, can’t _un-fuck up_ your throat, but going back, refusing to let that stop you, feels a hell of a lot better than slinking away to lick your wounds.

You change your bandages out daily, examining the damage carefully each time, but if it’s starting to look any better than it did before, it’s happening in small enough increments that you can't tell.

With each unchanging hour, it sinks in more and more that the scarring might stay. Forever. A constant reminder of what happened.

You peer closer at your reflection in the mirror, tracing over the puckered skin with a finger, from the center, where the scarring is thickest, to the edges, where you can see stray pockmarks, imagine where the salt shot came to rest in your skin.

You almost _died._ You got your throat ripped up and your voice wrested from you because of a _noise complaint_.

When the call came in complaining of “something loud scaring my damn cows and keeping me up. If it’s that damn Boshaw trying to tip ‘em over again, you make sure he knows he's trespassing and I won’t have it anymore!” you’d thought it would be quick. Easy. It seemed like a good time to have Hudson show you the ropes, to see if you could handle yourself in the moment, and not just in training. Hudson would be there to guide you or take over as needed. What could go wrong?

As it turned out… everything.

You learned quickly that it was not, in fact, ‘that damned Boshaw’ trying to cow-tip. No, the source of the noise was a pick-up truck stopped at the side of the road and nestled up to the edge of the property line, keys in the ignition and radio blaring.

The owner of the pick-up, toeing the edge of the fence off to the side of the truck, was drunk enough that the scent of alcohol rolled off him in waves, but he seemed amiable enough to see you and Hudson… at first.

“Evenin’, officers. What can I do ya for?”

“This your car?” you asked, getting the obvious question out of the way. At his nod, you continued. “You can turn down the music, as a start.” You jerked a thumb behind you in the direction of the distant farmhouse. “You’re making a bit of a racket out here. Disturbing the peace.”

“Oh, sure, sure!” He’d meandered unsteadily to the door of the pick-up and hoisted himself partway in through the window to crank down the volume.

He remained dangling there, half-in, half-out as you lectured him – gently enough, you thought, reminding him that he had to be mindful of the hour next time, or at least to do this sort of thing at _home_ and not so close to someone else’s property. And, of course, he should take care to avoid drinking and driving; a call to the station could arrange a ride home for him, if he should find himself in a similar situation. Always better to be safe than sorry.

You had to suppress a chuckle by the end of it; the longer he stayed like that, the more his position reminded you of _Pooh Bear_ , stuck in his den, and it made it hard to be stern.

“I was scoping out the area for grouse season,” he’d explained, voice muffled by his position. “Looking for signs they might be nesting nearby.”

“Oh?” you’d said. “It seems early for grouse season. I thought it didn’t start for another month.” You turned back to Hudson to confirm whether or not that was true.

And apparently, that was enough to change his mind about you.

“You callin’ me a liar?” It’s only later that you realize how cold his voice became.

“Not at all. I’m still  getting used to the area, and I thought maybe–” But you never got to finish.

You remember a sharp gasp from Hudson, the crunch of gravel beneath her feet as she moved forward, seeing the threat before you did. By the time you turned back, he had already pushed himself out of the pick-up, shotgun in hand, and then –

_Pain, dulled by surprise. Hudson’s shout. The jerky motion of your limbs as you stumbled backwards, trying and ultimately failing to catch yourself. The breathlessness of it all. Hudson’s arms around your shoulders, pulling you up, her voice harsh and low and_ scared, _“Rookie, hey, can you hear me? God damn it, don’t die on me!”_

_Gasping for a breath and trying to respond and then,_ then _it hurt, so bad you thought you might die of that feeling alone, grasping at her sleeve, tighter, tighter,_ tighter –

A jolt of pain brings you out of it and you are staring at yourself in the mirror once more, hands crossed over your throat as if to protect yourself. You wince as you lower them, scar aching from the careless pressure.

It happened. It hurt. It’s healing. And now you'll remember it, every time you look in the mirror.

You grab for the gauze to wrap it back up again, but pause as a new thought occurs to you.

This… is a big scar. And the scarring seems to run pretty deep.

Which means that some poor bastard woke up to find a big-ass patch of flowers on their throat, and your fuck-up is immortalized _twice._

Your forehead comes to rest on the mirror with a heavy _thunk_. You just can't catch a break, can you?

You've always been so _careful_. The garden of your skin has always stood as a testament to what might happen otherwise – which isn’t to say that you’ve avoided _every_ ill. There's decent odds that they, wherever they are, have a few marks on them from scars that are easy for you to pass over or forget, or that might be covered up by your flowers. But – those would be _small._ This… isn't.

You slide your palm over your throat, staring into the mirror.

Were they – surprised to see it? You doubt they were _expecting_ to see a patch of flowers sprout up on their throat. But maybe they were pleased, after the shock wore off. They can’t have _nearly_ as many markings as you have. Maybe it’s nice to have a reminder that there’s supposed to be someone out there for them. Or… maybe they hated it. Maybe they think it's just plain ugly, or maybe they’ve settled into a life with no time for _fate_ and _destiny_ and nonsense like that and they hate that they didn’t get a choice in the matter.

You can relate. God only knows what your marks have done to you; all those moments of feeling like your body wasn’t fully yours, the knowledge that at any moment, something could change, that you’d be made different and you wouldn’t even know it, wouldn't be able to stop it or slow it.

Your hand drifts lower, resting at your collarbone, where a good few inches of flowers just… showed up one morning, years ago. Bold as anything, stretching across your chest – and then a few months later, it got _darker,_ more flowers suddenly tangled into the ones already there. Pretty as they are, you never got to _choose_ to have them. It’s never been about what you want.

But… what's done is done. You _are_ scarred, and it's likely that they _are_ marked, regardless of what they think about that.

You fix the bandage in place at last and twist your head to check that it’s secure.

...what would it look like? Would the marks you leave on them be the same as the ones you wear? Despite the variety of flowers adorning your body, they’ve always been some shade of blue. Would they match you? Does blue bloom across their skin just as it covers you? Or would you leave different types, different colors?

For a moment, you imagine your throat unscarred but bursting with flowers in brilliant red, yellow, violet, and finally in that familiar blue that covers your back, the color of your first marks. Whatever it looks like, you’ve left your own mark on them. There’s a sort of satisfaction in that.

And then the moment passes. You’ll find out when you meet them, if you ever do. Until then, it does no good to dwell on possibilities.

You wait out the rest of your days off by packing your schedule as full as possible; messing with the voice-to-speech apps more, practicing ASL with the help of Whitehorse’s book, exercising to the point of exhaustion, catching up on emails and texts, tidying everything and then tidying it all again, and doing your best to nurse your poor, wilting houseplants back to life.

When your final check-up confirms your hopes that everything looks good and you’re fit for duty once more, tugging on your uniform feels like the ultimate relief – though you are quick to find that it’s different, now.

Certain… accommodations must be made, much as it bruises your pride.

You can’t call for backup, and though Nancy laughs when you suggest you could just snap your fingers into your radio if you need her to send help, the satisfaction of amusing her is marred by the knowledge that that’s not good enough. It may be mostly quiet here, but that doesn’t mean you won’t _ever_ run into trouble, as you are now well aware. While it’s likely that you usually won’t need any assistance from dispatch, not being _able_ to ask is a liability.

Until you can find a workaround, you’re pretty much grounded, confined to the station unless one of the other deputies are available to be saddled with the burden of babysitting you.

But… that’s not actually too different from how it was before. And being back here bleeds away some of the melancholy, thank god.

The first time you come in sans bandages, Pratt gives a low whistle. “That’s one hell of a scar, rook.”

And it doesn’t sting to hear it. ‘ _Makes me look rugged_ ,’ you write in response. ‘ _People dig scars._ ’

You work out new patterns and settle back into old ones. You make coffee. Sort through paperwork. Pencil vocal therapy appointments into your calendar, every Saturday for the next few months. And pretend not to notice the obvious tension in the room whenever the _local situation_ comes up.

It works.

Right up until you get a call from Sheriff Whitehorse after midnight, just hours after you left the station.

Something seemed wrong from the get-go – the early hour, maybe, or the simple fact that the _cult problem_ you’ve been hearing about in the weeks since you’ve arrived is bad enough to merit a federal warrant, which couldn’t get more than a half dozen people to follow it – three of whom are _deputies_.

But when you saw the _statue_ rising up out of the fog, enormous and eerily pale, it finally hit you that this is _real_.

This isn’t just a bunch of overzealous religious fanatics. This is big _._ This is _dangerous_.

The realization was only reinforced by the expressions of those around you, by the tension in Pratt’s shoulders as you stepped out of the helicopter, by Hudson’s hand on your shoulder, an anchor point, as she assured you it would all be fine, by Sheriff Whitehorse, grim but steady, leading the way.

Heart in your throat, you’d resolved to do your level best to just _get through this_. Listen to the sheriff, listen to the marshal, go in, get Joseph Seed, get out, and it would all be fine.

You managed to hold on to a scrap of that hope right up until the marshal spoke those three simple words and sealed your fate: “Cuff him, rookie.”

Maybe it's unkind to think of his words as what did it. But you remember how the command seemed to draw, as one the eyes of the Seeds to you, the weight of their gaze enough to curdle your stomach.

You’ll give them this: they've sure got _presence_. Standing there like guards behind their brother as Joseph stretched forth his hands, it felt less like a concession and more like – like – they were _indulging_ you, play-acting for the fool who thought they could ever defy the will of the Seeds. You felt stripped bare before them, like they could see clear to the heart of you.

And you knew then that it wouldn’t end well, even before seeing the hate in the eyes of the crowd as they watched you lead away Joseph Seed, even before the helicopter went down, even before the sharp shock of betrayal that was Nancy’s reverent whisper to _the father_ , even before his eyes locked on you for the last time.

_“No one is coming to save you.”_

And yet – here you are, alive and less than well, but out of their clutches, for the moment.

Maybe it was your luck that saved you. So many close calls, so many times you _almost_ got caught, almost got _hurt_ ; the bridge falling out from under you, the shock of cold as the river enveloped you, lungs burning, straining, desperately trying to last another few seconds – and still, you were pulled from the water, and by far friendlier hands than any of your colleagues got.

Your _friends_. Caught. Captured. Hurting.

But they won’t be that way for long. You have a lot of luck to pay back. And you intend to make good on that.


	2. guess this is as good a day as any for a life-ruining revelation

“Oh, man, I wish I could see the look on those peggies’ faces when we send this their way.”

You pause, duct tape between your teeth, as you look up at Sharky, then rip off a strip and grin at him in silent agreement. 

He’s radiating barely-contained glee as he hands over the last stick of dynamite, and when you jam it under the hood of the stolen quad and secure it next to the others with duct tape, he starts bouncing on the balls of his feet. The dynamite doesn’t budge even when you prod it, so you straighten and survey your work. 

“You think this’ll be enough?” Sharky asks. You nod emphatically, and his bouncing intensifies. “Oh man, oh man…” 

You mime flicking a lighter and incline your head towards the quad.  _ ‘Light her up _ ,’ you mouth. 

Sharky doesn’t need to be told twice. He shrugs the flamethrower off his back and nudges the hood open with the tip of it. With some careful maneuvering, he manages to light one of the fuses with the igniter. 

As the fuse crackles, he leaps away and you scramble to the back of the quad and give it a hard shove. 

You stay just long enough to make sure it begins its descent down the hill, and then you curl your fingers into the sleeve of Sharky’s hoodie and book it back towards the road. 

The dynamite goes off when you're about halfway to the car, loud enough that you stumble, startled, but you keep moving until you reach the car, then wrench open the door and scramble over the driver's seat to get to the passenger side, Sharky following close behind. 

The keys are already in the ignition, primed to make your escape, and with Sharky at the wheel, the car lurches forward before you’ve even righted yourself. 

Boomer, in the back seat, wiggles with a full-body wag as you reach back to scratch him behind the ears. Good boy. The most valiant and diligent of lookouts. 

You squint out the window. There were peggies down there, so there’s a good chance that someone’s going to try to follow you, but where…? 

And then you spot them. A pick-up truck rattling down the road, cult symbol on full display, engine pushed to its limits. 

You keep one hand tangled in Boomer’s fur as you grab your pistol from its holster and only stop petting him when you lean far enough out the window that you need a hand to steady yourself. 

Given the distance between you as well as the swaying motion of the car, it takes three shots to hit one of their front tires, but it bursts immediately, sending the pick-up veering off the road, where it vanishes into a ditch. 

After a moment of careful scrutiny, you still can’t see anyone else following you — just a cloud of bliss shrinking in the distance, almost overtaken by a rapidly growing plume of smoke. That's one silo they won’t be salvaging anytime soon. You haul yourself back into the car and shoot Sharky a thumbs up. For the moment, you’re in the clear. 

The car pitches slightly to the side as Sharky whoops and bangs a fist on the dashboard. His joy is infectious, and there’s a smile playing at your lips as you lean back, enjoying the breeze. Now you’ve just got to hope that this little escapade served its purpose in catching a certain baptist’s attention. 

It  _ ought _ to. The last time you were in the valley —

You snort at the memory, your train of thought temporarily derailed in a burst of amusement. 

The last time you were in the valley you went on a quest for some petty vengeance that lasted the better part of a week, doing anything and everything you thought might put a bee in dear old John Seed’s bonnet and help the burgeoning resistance: stealing back food and supplies being transported between cult outposts, chasing down as many reaping trucks as you could find, setting fire to bundles of bliss packaged up for the silos, sneaking past the peggies at his ranch to steal back Nick’s plane right under John’s nose, and finally, in an act of spiteful determination, blowing up that awful, gaudy  _ ‘YES _ ’ sign he loved so much before scooting off to the Henbane to follow up on a lead from  Pastor Jerome . 

Given how he sounded on the radio after that last stunt, voice shaking with bare, seething rage, Eden’s baptist is probably  _ itching  _ to get his hands on you. 

And now, thanks to the swath of destruction you’ve trailed behind you — minor, but not insignificant acts of vandalism and sabotage, kept to the roads near the river — he should be _well_ aware of your return to the valley. Ideally, he won’t realize you’ve moved beyond the outskirts of his territory until after you’ve finished what you came here to do. You don’t doubt that he’ll catch wind of your location eventually, but it might just throw off the peggies for a while, buy you a few hours of peace, enough to repay  Pastor Jerome for one of the many, many kindnesses he has given you. 

The man saved your ass  _ and _ pointed you in the direction of Sheriff Whitehorse. If he wants you to look into a defector, by god, you are going to do it. 

The road ahead is clear. It should stay that way, so long as you steer clear of Fall’s End. Should help you fly under the radar, too. 

You reach for the notepad in your front pocket, and manage to get halfway through writing ‘ _ how far is it to Silver Lake? _ ’ when the radio at your hip crackles to life. 

“ _ Deputy… _ ”

You freeze — and then jolt straight up in your seat, unclipping your radio and holding it close to hear the broadcast better. 

“ _You’ve had your fun. But all sinners must confess._ _This is the will of the father._ ”

You have to bite your knuckle to suppress a laugh. You’ll give John credit for his restraint, but his attempt at patience is marred by an underlying note of malice. 

“ _ My men are coming for you. I'll see you soon. _ ”

And with a burst of static, the line goes silent. 

You let your head fall back against the seat, shoulders shaking in soundless, triumphant laughter. It’s exactly what you’d hoped for. God bless the diligence of those peggies. Can’t let a single silo go up in flames without running straight to their darling baptist to tattle. 

“Hey, how — how mad d’you think John’s gonna be when he sends peggies out to catch you and they can’t find you  _ anywhere? _ ” Sharky asks. 

You snort, then screw up your face in an approximation of fury and motion with your hand, fingers curled like claws, to sign, ‘ _ Very mad. _ ’

“He’s gonna lose his shit,” Sharky agrees. 

The exchange leaves you in a  _ wonderful  _ mood, and the rest of the drive is a breeze, especially with Sharky singing along to the radio, slightly off-key but with  _ enthusiasm _ . When Boomer joins in, too, sticking his head between the seats and howling along, you have no choice but to contribute the only way you can, tapping the dashboard to the beat.

By the time the signs advertising the Silver Lake Trailer Park come into view, it feels like no time has passed at all. 

Sharky pulls off the road and onto a dirt path when the trailer park is just barely visible down the hill. You clamber out, Boomer at your heels, and start off towards the trees surrounding Silver Lake. 

“Hey, uh, dep?”

You turn back to the car, where Sharky still sits. Given how delicate the situation seemed, you’ve asked him to take on the all-important title of getaway driver, rather than asking him to sneak in at your side to rescue the defector. Even so, Sharky looks forlorn as he asks, “you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

Oh, Sharky. Seeing him look so disappointed makes your heart twinge. But you shake your head. He’s a sight to behold in combat, and when you want something wreathed in flames, there’s no one else you’d turn to, but this job needs to be done quietly. 

You point at yourself, touch your fingertips to the sides of your forehead, point at him, touch the fingertips of your flattened hands to your chest, point at yourself again, then tap your back. 

‘ _ I know you’ve got my back _ .’

Sharky brightens immediately. The construction of the phrase isn’t quite right, you’re sure, but it’s simple and it uses signs you’ve shown him before, so it gets your point across. 

He shifts a little, brimming with pride as he says, “Course I do!”

You meet his smile with one of your own, then sign, ‘ _ I’ll see you soon _ , o _ kay _ ?’

This time, he seems more at ease with letting you go. “I’ll be waitin’ here for ya, ready and rarin’ to go!” he promises. 

You shoot him a thumbs up, and off you go. 

You’re not sure exactly where you’ll find Grace, as other than ‘somewhere in the thicket of trees surrounding the trailer park,’ you didn’t really set up a specific meeting place, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find her — or rather, Boomer, with his keen nose, should find her quickly, and you’ll just follow along. 

He leads you further and further from the path, and soon enough, he’s bounding ahead eagerly, circling one of the sturdier trees, and Grace swings down from a branch moments later. Imagining how she got up there gives you a temporary burst of amusement. 

She scratches Boomer behind the ears before looking up at you. “Hey, dep.”

You wave a silent greeting. 

She thumbs the brim of her hat as she looks down at the trailer park. “Couple of peggies patrolling down there,” she says. “But it’s quiet for now. Let’s keep it that way.” 

You nod. Stay quiet, do what you came here to do, and get out fast. 

“And stay sharp,” she advises. “John can’t stand being made to look bad. He’ll send search parties our way if he catches wind we’re here. We should make a hasty retreat once we’re done here.”

You nod again, and Grace keeps her distance, watching from afar while you sneak ahead with Boomer. 

There aren’t too many peggies on patrol, but avoiding their notice slows you down considerably. It’s a tricky balance; you have to be quiet, creep around corners and knock ‘em out before you’re seen, but also have to be fast enough that they don’t realize people are disappearing and something is amiss. 

Boomer helps. Without him by your side, you wouldn't be nearly as alert to their movements. His soft growls and the way he tenses up when a peggie comes near keep you one step ahead of them. 

And Grace saves your ass at _least_ once, though you mostly notice after the fact, turning a corner to find a downed peggie. 

Soon, the trailer park is quiet, no trace of footsteps or chatter. Grace joins you after a quick sweep shows no sign of peggies laying in wait, and the resistance member holed up with the defector is overjoyed to see you. The defector is so doped up on bliss that just looping an arm around his waist to help him stand makes your vision go shimmery, but he, too, seems grateful for your help. 

The presence of a gaggle of peggies by the docks is an unpleasant surprise, as is the mounted gun in their midst, but they don’t seem to be expecting you. Careful timing resolves  _ that  _ problem — Grace’s rifle takes out the peggy behind the gun as your pistol knocks back the one next to him, and the last one goes down before he can reach either his gun or his radio. You watch them fall and try to bury a twinge of guilt. 

As you help the defector settle onto the boat, the resistance member assures you he can take it from here. No fuss, no reinforcements… Sharky’s not going to be making much of a getaway. Maybe you can cause some mayhem on the way to Fall’s End, to make it up to him. 

As you watch them take off down the river, Grace speaks up. “We should check the area, make sure there aren’t any peggies who might stumble onto this mess and call it in.”

‘ _ Yes _ ,’ you sign, and then, unable to communicate the rest of what you want to say with your limited repertoire of signs, you pull the notepad from your pocket and scrawl, ‘ _ and the trailer park? _ ’ 

“Should check that too,” Grace says. “Better safe than sorry.”

You nod. ‘ _ Flip a coin to see who gets which? _ ’

The suggestion brings a ghost of a smile to her lips. “You take Silver Lake. It’s more your speed.”

You feign offense at her teasing remark, but she’s right. She’s got a better eye for this sort of thing, and  _ far  _ more experience, so you tuck your notepad back into your pocket and sign, ‘ _ Take Boomer. I’ll see you soon _ .’ That nose of his will be of better use here than back up at Silver Lake.

“Watch your back,” Grace advises. 

And with that, you start up the hill. 

In your sweep of the area, you pass through trailer after trailer, occasionally bypassing a locked door by hopping through a window  _ juuuuuust  _ in case there’s peggies holed up inside, but so far, at least, they all seem empty. 

You  _ do  _ take notice of a handful of wanted posters this time around, though, as well as the fact that most of them are of  _ you _ . At the last trailer left to investigate, you pause to thumb the poster by the door.

It’s a decent rendition. No hint of the scarring you  _ should  _ be able to see above the bandana tied around your neck, given how low they’ve positioned it, and your uniform is obviously long-gone by now, but it’s decent. Even with those muddled details, someone in Eden’s Gate could have a promising career as a sketch artist, if not for the whole ‘cult’ thing. 

You shake away the thought and turn your attention back to the situation at hand. 

Right, trailers are clear. There’s a ladder on the side of this one — might as well get a look at the area from a vantage point before reconvening with Grace, see if you’ve missed anything.

You clamber up the ladder, haul yourself over the top, and step gingerly across the roof. 

There’s bodies between the trailers, some living and unconscious and some… considerably less so, but nothing’s moving. 

You stand straighter and crane your head to look beyond the trailer park. There’s the road… there’s the docks…. around there is where Sharky’s parked… there’s the apple orchard… and no sign of any peggies.

The radio at your hip crackles.

“All clear here. Comin’ back your way.”

You raise your radio and transmit just long enough to click your tongue twice into it, confirmation that you’ve heard her, then clip it back onto your belt. A job well done. 

The wind picks up and, satisfied, you give in to temptation and fling your arms wide, letting the wind ruffle your hair, king-of-the-world style.

— and then there is sudden pain and you stumble, fingers flying to your forearm where you find an  _ arrow _ embedded in your flesh. 

You wrench it free unthinkingly and drop into a crouch, fingers spasming around it while you look about wildly for whoever must have spotted you.

You can’t see them, you can’t see them, you can’t  _ see them _ , and as panic sets in, you realize that, even crouched low as you are, you have begun to  _ sway _ . It gets harder and harder to focus on the arrow in your hand as the edges of your vision go faintly fuzzy. 

Oh, fuck,  _ fuck _ , it’s a bliss arrow. 

You reach for your radio to warn Grace somehow but before your fingers close around it, the haze creeps in. You register, dimly, tipping backwards, and then the world goes dark. 

You fade in and out of consciousness. You are aware of little, and remember even less.    


You recall being lifted. Voices, though their words are too dim to register.  A faint but pervasive sense of pain. But the first moment you seem to really be  _ aware  _ of what’s going on around you is when you hear  _ whistling _ . 

The sound floats through the mental fog, sharp and real enough to draw you from the mist.

You almost wish it hadn't. 

Consciousness brings alarm, fear, pain — and  _ rage _ , to see Hudson bound much as you are, struggling against her restraints with a face as marked by tears as it was in that godawful broadcast. 

And then John Fuckin’ Seed comes sauntering in like he’s the fucking cock of the block and your jaw snaps shut so fast you’re surprised you don’t chip a tooth. 

He is, evidently, the source of the whistling, and he continues the tune as he begins to set up… something. You can’t quite see what it is from here, but it can’t be good, and a feeling of dread begins to take root in your stomach.

Breathe through your nose. Count backwards from twenty. And try not to panic. 

He’s gone through the trouble of capturing you  _ alive _ , not burying you in a shallow grave, so he doesn’t want to kill you. Not yet, anyway. 

Just… hurt you real, real bad.

When he turns to you at last, your fingers clench reflexively, digging into the arms of the chair, but he  _ smiles _ . 

He regards you for a long moment, and and as the silence stretches on, you start to feel  _ itchy  _ under his gaze. Finally, he speaks. 

“My parents were the first ones to teach me about the power of ‘yes,’” he begins. 

It’s — not what you expected, not in the least. You listen — how could you not? — but your insides coil, grow tense, tense, tense, tight like a rubber band about to snap. 

You test your bonds as subtly as you can, again and again, searching for some sign of weakness in the ropes, all the while trying not to flinch when he draws near —though when he tugs open the collar of your shirt, all attempts at keeping a cool head go out the window. But he just… slathers something on your chest, below your collarbone. It doesn’t sting but for the cold, and smells vaguely of alcohol. He draws back. 

If you crane your head, you can catch the slight glint of wetness covering the patch of flowers —  hydrangeas — there. 

He pauses his speech just long enough to glance down at it, too, and it’s almost a relief that he does, because when he begins to speak again, there is a subtle quirk to his lips that pushes back some of your fear and replaces it with anger.    


Yeah, yuk it up asshole. It’s not as if you haven’t noticed that the placement of that particular marking lines up with the location of the tattoos so many of the peggies seem to sport, and it’s not as if you haven’t considered that this may mean that your soul is tied to some goddamn peggie. He must find that possibility  _ wildly  _ amusing. 

But fear remains, even still, unable to be fully beat out by righteous indignation, because — you’d expected anger. You could  _ understand  _ anger. You’re in the way. You’ve made a nuisance of yourself. Capturing you gives him an opportunity to put a stop to that. But this… this openness, this honesty, if he  _ is  _ being honest — it’s frightening. 

You think you’d rather face John’s wrath than be reminded that Joseph has deemed you  _ worthy of atonement.  _

You can’t quite tell if the man before you believes his brother’s words, though he  _ sounds  _ sincere when he tells you he’s going to teach you courage through your confession, enough that you shiver at the thought of what that may entail. If he hasn’t taken Joseph’s decree to heart, he’s good at acting like he has, or… maybe his composure just comes from knowing there’s a great deal of pain involved in confessing and he’s looking forward to putting you through it. 

You still haven’t figured that out when he crosses his legs, leaning against the table as casual as can be, and asks, “who wants to go first?” 

If you had the voice for it, you’d groan. Unless he was just trying to fuck with you, that shit he smeared on your chest was almost certainly something to clean or sterilize the area, so he clearly  _ intends  _ to go ahead with your confession and mark you with one of his patented  _ personal sin _ tattoos. 

“ _ Hmm? _ ”

With how intently his eyes are locked on you, you doubt he’s actually expecting Hudson to speak up and volunteer instead, not that she  _ could _ with her mouth duct taped. Why bother offering the illusion of a choice, then? You grit your teeth and look staunchly away from him. 

As the silence stretches on, his patience seems to wane, and there is a touch of irritation in his voice as he repeats, “Which one?”

Is getting you to say ‘ _ yes,  _ please  _ hear my confession, there’s nothing I’d love more _ ’ really necessary, or is it just a point of pride, something to take a sick sort of pleasure in?

A breath escapes him in a hiss. The last remains of his patience seem to dwindle with every word he grits out. “This is  _ lesson number one _ —”

And then Hudson, haloed by the light filtering through those  _ fucking  _ antlers, flinches and the noise that leaves her throat is  _ despairing _ , and —

_ Fuck _ , you can’t stay silent and hope to weather the storm because it’s one thing to gamble with your own wellbeing, but what if he  _ doesn’t  _ turn his ire on you, what if he decides Hudson should bear the brunt of it instead, and — you’re having a shitty fucking day but you haven’t been duct taped in a bunker for weeks. The thought of what lies in store for you if you put yourself in his hands makes your stomach churn, but it’s more palatable than the thought of letting her suffer more when you could prevent that,  _ delay it  _ at least.

“Someone’s got to  _ choose! _ ”

So you do.

You pull up against your restraints with all your might, throwing your weight behind the motion. It does nothing to loosen your bonds, only creates a truly awful cacophony of metallic squeaks as the chair protests this abuse, but all you need is to catch his attention.

You draw in a slow, shuddering breath and meet his gaze. Tension lingers in his stance, hands braced against the desk, looking for all the world like a man about to strike. You force yourself to relax a little, tilting your chin up to make your face as visible as possible, then mouth, ‘ _ YES _ .’

His eyes narrow. 

Again, you mouth your assent, exaggerating the motions until you’re biting out the word, ‘ _ yes, yes, yes, YES _ .’ You sign in concert, though it’s difficult with the restraints, fingerspelling, ‘ _ Y - E - S, Y - E - S _ .’

His mouth twists with displeasure. “Deputy…” There’s a note of warning in his voice. 

Try something else, then. You draw in another breath, steel yourself, and then strain to push air past your ruined vocal cords, jerking forwards at the same time. There is a  _ squeak  _ — though whether you’ve managed to elicit the faintest note from your throat or it’s just the rasping of the chair, you can't be sure. Hurts like a bitch either way.

“If you’re eager to get started, all you have to say is…” He trails off, prompting you to finish. 

Is ‘yes,’ yeah, you got the memo. If only you had the voice for it. 

Your muteness isn't an _intentional_ secret, but it’s clearly not widely known beyond those who’ve seen it firsthand. If you’d known that fact would leave you in a bind like this, you'd have — drawn up pamphlets explaining it and crop-dusted the county with them, written ‘ **MUTE** ’ across a t-shirt in big, bold letters, or — _something_ , _anything_ that would have prevented this. 

He pushes off from the desk, the last traces of calmness gone from his stance, and your breath stutters. You  _ can’t  _ let him choose Hudson. If he knew you were willing, if you could just make him  _ see  _ —

And then a thought strikes you. Maybe you  _ can _ .

You throw your head back violently and  _ wriggle _ , this time attempting not to rattle the chair and draw his attention, but to dislodge your bandana and expose the scarring on your neck. 

Lip-reading can be misinterpreted, but scars should paint a more obvious picture, so you twist and thrash until you feel the fabric loosen and fall, low enough to where your scar  _ should  _ be clearly visible.

And, after a minute, you are relieved to hear footsteps nearing. 

You cast your eyes to the ceiling and try to keep your breathing regulated, though your pulse races more and more with every step.

When he gets close enough, he pauses, then hooks a finger into your bandana and drags it down. Your distaste for being touched keeps your gaze as far from him as possible, though you can’t help but watch him in your peripheral.

But... nothing happens, and as the silence stretches on and his fingers continue to linger at the hollow of your throat, you grow uneasy. Surely it shouldn’t take this long to connect the dots. Is he waiting for… some reaction that  _ proves  _ that you are taciturn not by choice but by necessity? Or… is he trying to intimidate you?

At that thought, you grit your teeth and gather the will to look at him — and when you do, your snarl drops as your face goes slack with blank shock.

That’s — not the expression you expected to see. 

John’s gaze is locked on your scar with an intensity that makes you shrink back, and it’s only when you do that his gaze shifts to yours, intensity undimmed. The way he looks at you is searching — though what, exactly, he intends to find, you don’t know. 

But before long his eyes flick back to your throat, like it  _ means  _ something, and a thought unfurls, barely recognized before you act on it. 

‘ _ What if…’ _

And you look to  _ his  _ throat — where, for the first time, you see the barest peek of color above his buttoned-up collar, of  _ flowers _ in vibrant red and purple. 

_ No.  _

You reject the realization — the _false_ realization, the _assumption_ — immediately, but there is delight in his eyes when your gaze flicks back to him. As though by looking, you’ve confirmed his suspicions.

John pulls your bandana aside to peer once more at the flowers stretching across your collarbone, and as he does a  _ smile  _ blooms on his face. 

Cogs are turning. Assumptions are being made. But they’re  _ wrong _ . 

Yeah, you’ve got marks in the same spot. So what? Who says that  _ means  _ anything? Does he think you’re the only person in the world with a scar on their throat?

So sure, you can see how he might leap to thinking — what he’s thinking, but the marks are coincidental, they’re not  _ proof  _ of a link between you. There’s nothing that proves that, and there will never  _ be  _ anything that proves that because that’s  _ absurd _ , the whole idea that you could be —  _ soulmates with John Seed.  _

The moment hangs, suspended, as you watch each other, your unease building in stark contrast to his apparent elation. Finally, he draws in a breath — and, unable to bear the thought of him giving voice to that possibility, you jerk your chin towards your hand as you sign, ‘ _ Y - E - S. _ ’

You fingerspell it until you feel reasonably sure he saw it, then raise your chin and mouth the word for good measure.

Forget about the soulmate shit, you plead silently. This, volunteering,  _ confessing _ —  _ that's _ what’s important. 

John draws back. His hand rises to his chest, fingers splaying across his collarbone. He sounds somewhat breathless when he says, “in light of this... revelation, I can forgive your silence. Assuming, of course, that  _ is  _ a ‘yes’?”

You nod fervently and he  _ beams _ . 

“You won’t regret this, I promise.” His voice is uncomfortably tender, as is the almost affectionate way he looks at you. Thankfully, it doesn't last long; as he straightens, he seems to regain his composure. 

“Now,” he says, as he clasps his hands together, “before we begin, I think it's only proper that Deputy Hudson goes back to her room. Confessions are meant to be private, after all.”

You flinch at the sound of her struggling as he begins to wheel her away. John is not nearly so concerned, though he  _ does  _ pause before passing you to lean down and shush her gently. 

“I am not here to take your life,” he reassures her — and then he looks to you. “I am here to  _ give  _ it to you. I’m going to open you and pour your worst fears inside.” He grasps the back of your chair. “And as you choke, your sins will reveal themselves. Only then will you truly understand the power of ‘yes’.”

Despite the terrifying picture his words paint, it's spoken like a reassurance. His eyes flick down to your scar briefly and he smiles again. 

“We might have to get somewhat…  _ creative  _ with your confession,” he chuckles, “but don’t fret, dear deputy. We’ll pull your truth from you yet.”

And he takes hold of Hudson’s chair once more and whisks her away. 

You listen until you can no longer hear the sound of his footsteps or his cheery humming, and only then do you sag in your restraints. Exhaustion floods your system as the tension starts to ebb, though your shoulders remain stiff. There’s no way you could relax in this place, not when you know John will soon return to  _ pour your worst fears inside you _ , and not when you think about that flash of red and purple at his throat, false match or not.

You’ve been thrown one hell of a curveball, and what he has in store for you sounds hellish, but it keeps his attention away from Hudson. It keeps her  _ safe.  _ You’ll confess and she’ll be fine. 

…right up until your confession is over and then it'll be her turn again and you'll be weak and hurt and even  _ less  _ able to help her and  _ fuck _ , you’re an idiot, you can’t wait here, you have to get her out  _ now.  _

Your eyes dart around the room, taking in every possible method of escape. 

If you could reach the table you might be able use something he left behind to cut through your restraints, but though you strain, you can’t even come close. 

Hudson was kept in a rolling chair, are you also—? 

You rock your weight forward experimentally, and a wave of relief hits you as the chair squeaks forward an inch or two. If you’d known earlier that you could do that, you’d have — have —

...rolled over John’s foot, you suppose, and only if he was distracted enough not to notice you.

You rock towards the table, aiming for something sharp. Closer, closer, ever closer you get, until your fingertips brush the side of it — but your next push sends you too far, and it tips, its contents spilling onto the floor. Goodbye lamp. Goodbye bowl of antiseptic.

You curse silently. For a moment, you consider tipping over the chair to get to the fallen objects, but… no. You can’t be sure anything there is sharp enough to cut through your bonds even if you  _ could  _ reach them. Look elsewhere. 

You squirm until the chair lurches forward. The toolbox he brought? No, too high up. Something over by the far wall? But there’s only a pipe, propped up in a way that you  _ could _ reach it, but far too cumbersome to do you any good now.

All you need is a way to get free of your bindings and then you can — lie in wait, stay in the chair and make it look as though you’ve been perfectly patient and then lunge at him when his back is turned. Stick his screwdriver in his eye socket, maybe. But the longer you search, the more apparent it becomes that there’s nothing that can free you, nothing you can reach, anyway, so how —

And then you round a corner and are faced with stairs. 

Oh. 

Well. 

This will either work or hurt you very, very badly. 

You swallow your fear and pitch forward.

Seconds later, chair splintered into pieces around your prone, aching body, you find that it’s both. 

Your head spins as you pull yourself to your feet, but the fractured arms slip easily from your restraints and you are free to move as you please — though there’s no way you’ll be able to pretend you were waiting helplessly now. 

But… the path behind you. Maybe you can follow it, sneak ahead on a different path and get to Hudson while John is on his way back to you. 

So you run. 

The messages that play over the loudspeakers as you get farther from the interrogation room are unsettling — how many different lines extolling the virtues of confessing did he record? — but you won’t let that stop you. 

With your personal arsenal pilfered, you are light on your feet, though you can’t help but remember how vulnerable you are every time you creep past another peggie. 

You suppose you should be grateful for their devotion; most of them are so absorbed in their work or their worship that it’s a breeze to sneak by them. And you should be grateful that there are so many goddamn _shrines_ scattered throughout the bunker to give them opportunities to lose themselves in worship. It seems like everywhere you turn, there’s another lovingly-crafted tribute to Joseph, complete with another gigantic, creepy painting of the man himself. 

...now that you think about it, it seems strange that Joseph is the  _ only  _ one who gets this treatment. You’d have expected their fervor would extend to the rest of the family, and with John’s ego, he’d want some form of recognition. Wouldn’t it sting, to see such blatant favoritism? Or maybe that’s just the way of things. 

But you do, at last, stumble upon a portrait of John, proof that he  _ does  _ have his own spots of worship, like his brother. It’s not exactly a  _ shrine _ , though, is it? No candles, no flowers. Just the one picture of him with a smirk and an obnoxious popped collar and… his unmarked throat... as though the mark hadn’t yet appeared when this was painted.

You stare at the portrait with time you don’t have, the thought sitting heavy and unwanted — and then you dig your fingers into the corner of the frame, clawing at the canvas until it rips, until it tears, until it hangs in tatters.

Fuck him, fuck his family, fuck this cult, fuck their goddamn  _ entitlement _ and they way they think they can swoop in and ruin everything they touch. As soon as Hudson is free, this whole place is going down in flames. 

On you go, through corridors clogged with crates of supplies, checking always-locked doors and hoping for some sign that you’re getting close, that you haven’t missed her already, always with those recordings playing overhead.

But you are soon faced with two realizations, occurring almost simultaneous. 

The first comes as you reach the end of another hallway and hear John’s voice over the loudspeaker crooning your title and a promise to save you: those are  _ not  _ recordings. 

And the second comes as you round the corner and are met with the butt of a shotgun slamming against your face, knocking you off your feet as your nose  _ pops  _ wetly: they know you’re free.

You choke and splutter as blood drips down your throat, but manage to grab at the shotgun. Though he tries, he can’t turn the gun around with your weight pulling it down — not before you reach the trigger and unload the shotgun into his chest. 

He staggers back and you wrest the gun from his limp fingers, haul yourself to your feet, and stumble from the room. 

It doesn’t matter if he’s down for good. If he isn’t, he’ll be too weak to chase after you , and every second — and every bit of ammo — counts. 

Head down, shoulders stiff, shotgun held like a shield. Knock ‘em out, knock ‘em dead, or just knock ‘em away, it doesn’t matter, so long as you keep moving and don’t let them stop you.

John’s voice taunts you all the while, trying to persuade you that you’re  _ safer  _ here than anywhere else while his peggies do their best to bleed you dry. 

His assertion that “ _ things could be worse _ ” might carry more weight if it didn’t coincide with a peggie swinging a baseball bat at your head — a blow you can partly deflect with the shotgun raised high but which still manages to hit your forearm with an audible  _ crack _ . Not broken, you think, or not enough to prevent you from lowering the shotgun and unloading the last of its ammo into his face, but  _ painful.  _

You toss down the now empty shotgun and scoop up the baseball bat. Your arm aches as you run, and your nose absolutely  _ radiates  _ pain, still steadily dripping blood, but you have to keep moving, you have to  _ find her.  _

And you do. 

On the other side of a closing door. 

Just the barest glimpse of her, but you  _ know  _ it’s her — and  _ him _ . Panic lances through you, and you rush to the door, heedless of the peggies in the room, but it’s no use. It swings shut with a final-sounding  _ click  _ before you reach it _.  _

You slam a fist against the door and grab the handle to wrench it open, but someone grabs your shoulder and you are jerked backwards. 

And you barely have to think about it. 

You swing the bat so hard it nearly flies from your hands — but it collides heavily with the jaw of the peggie who grabbed you. Rage coils in your stomach, and you swing again, this time catching him in his ribs and knocking him back. The other peggie rushes forward and you bring the bat down square on his skull, hard enough that he  _ bounces  _ with the force of it. You grip the bat tighter and raise it up, ready to strike again — then drop your arms to your side. They don’t matter. All that  _ does  _ matter is getting to Hudson.

You scurry back to the door and twist and tug at the handle, as if it’s become magically unlocked in the last minute. It hasn’t. 

If it won’t open it on its own, you’ll make it open. You step back to assess it. Solid metal — can’t break through that. The metal mesh, though… if you can break it, you might be able to haul yourself through it enough to unlock the door from the other side.

So without further thought, you raise the bat again and slam it like a battering ram against the grate. 

Again and again and again and again you hit it, frustration turning into frenzy as it becomes apparent that it will not budge, despite your efforts. There isn’t even a  _ dent.  _

It isn’t going to break. You can’t get in.

You strike the mesh again, just to vent your anger, then finally let the bat drop and lean your head against the door, exhausted. 

Only then does John step closer. The smile on his face is enough to raise your hackles, but the delight in his voice as he practically sings, “I know your sin,” makes your hands clench into fists at your sides. 

“It drives you,” he says, undeterred by your scowl. “Every thought, every action.”

He pauses, and you use the lull in his speech to swipe your sleeve across your face, mopping up the blood that’s begun to run down your chin, filling your mouth with the taste of copper. 

“Your sin,” he says at last, “is  _ wrath _ .”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat, silent though it is. You’d love to show him just how wrathful you can be.

Your other sleeve soaks up your bloody nose this time, so he can see clearly when you mouth, ‘ _ so? _ ’

He chuckles. “So I'll indulge you,” he says. “Become Wrath. Let it fill your body and consume your soul. Because in the end, you'll still be empty. And I'll be waiting right here.” His smile widens just a touch. “We both will.”

And he moves to  _ leave _ . 

You stare after him, dumbfounded, for one second, two, three, but he does not turn back.

He’s letting you  _ go _ ? He’s going to stay here with Hudson?

But he  _ can’t _ . 

You bang on the grate to get his attention. ‘ _ Take me, _ ’ you mouth, ‘ _ I’ll confess. Take me, not her _ .’ You drag your sleeve across your face again and then, in a fit of frustration, tear off your bandana to finally soak up the last of the blood there, then toss it to the ground so you can hit the door again. 

And he  _ does  _ turn around, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if not for the barrier between you. You wind your fingers into the gaps in the grate and hold tight, eyes locked on his.

‘ _ Let me in, _ ’ you mouth. ‘ _ Let me confess.’ _

But he shakes his head. “No, deputy. Your enthusiasm is noted, but it’s clear that you are not yet ready to admit the depths of your sin. Deputy Hudson, on the other hand…” He chuckles.

You look behind him to Hudson, her eyes wide and white with fear, and desperation claws at your chest. Maybe there really isn’t anything you can do for Hudson if you’re both stuck here, but what else are you supposed to do — turn around and walk out of here, leave her to face this  _ alone? _

‘ _ John _ ,’ you mouth, each movement deliberate. ‘ _ Yes _ .  _ Please _ .’ You lean in until your forehead rests against the door. ‘ _ I’ll stay, I’ll stay, I. Will.  _ Stay.’ 

And for a moment, he looks torn. 

Your breath catches and the smallest flicker of hope blossoms in your chest.

His eyes sweep slowly over you, searching, before finally settling on your uncovered throat  —  and then the uncertainty fades. There is a touch of regret in the set of his lips, but he shakes his head once more. 

“No,” he says. “Go.” His voice is tender. Indulgent. “Rest assured, I  _ will _ be seeing you again.”

He steps away from the door.

Even as you bang on the grate, you know it is a useless effort; he does not turn back. 

You stare at your stolen colleague as he wheels her away, trying to convey a promise through the intensity of your gaze, straining to meet her eyes right up until she disappears from view — you will get her  _ out  _ of here even if you have to raze this whole place to the ground.

And then you run. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this........... ballooned. whoops.  
> i'm not at all planning to have this be a by-the-book repeat of game events, that just ended up being the shtick for this chapter. show the points at which a timeline begins to majorly diverges in order to better show how it snowballs, y'know?

**Author's Note:**

> title's from a tmbg song, "mrs. bluebeard."  
> this is............... a really self-indulgent idea but i couldn't let it go once i thought of it, so........ here we are.


End file.
